Crumble and crash, men of flight
by if-llamas-could-fly
Summary: All he ever wanted was to fly.


**A/N Okay woah. I haven't written anything that isn't for ****_Whiplash_**** in a ****_really_**** long time. I feel like I've been cheating on my regular long writing with the drabbles. Whoops. Anyway, I got kinda bored of restricting myself with a 100 word limit, so I decided to go ahead and write another one-shot. This was ****_supposed_**** to be about Sam and Ezekiel and those badass wings we saw in 9x02 but it kinda just ran off on its own and came back as ****_this_****. I'm not even gonna complain. Enjoy! :) **_~Sammy_

* * *

**_Crumble and crash, men of flight_**

Every angel's vessel was made to bear wings.

Physically, they were no different to the other, _regular_, humans. They still had only two hundred and six bones, they still walked on two legs and talked and moved like every other person to ever live.

On an ethereal level, however, they were quite different. Their souls weren't perfect solid unbreakable balls of pure energy, but, rather, they _morphed_. They shifted and slid and bent to their surroundings, never quite _breaking_, but _changing_. Their souls were _meant_ to be chained to the raw force of angelic grace.

Every angel's vessel was made to bear wings.

Sam Winchester was made to bear the heaviest wings of all.

* * *

He'd always known, somehow, that there was something off about him.

All those times he'd asked Dean why they weren't _normal_, why they weren't like everybody else, he'd really been asking why he felt so out of place. Dean never could really answer him.

He'd hoped that, maybe, _pretending_ to be normal would work. If he kept up the charade long enough, then maybe, _maybe_, he'd feel less alien.

Hunting wasn't normal.

He wanted normal.

Running was normal, right? Humans ran?

* * *

He's not sure, _when_ exactly, he realized it.

It might have been when he watched Dean running laps around the motel room as he sat on the grass, seeing the exhilaration in Dean's eyes as he ran, almost _feeling_ the rush of adrenaline and the slap of wind on his face.

It might have been when they drove down another road with the windows rolled down and the radio turned up, and the scenery that normally would have fascinated him sped past and turned to streaks of greens and blues and yellows.

It might have been when Dad finally decided _he _was old enough to run laps, and the wind felt exactly like he thought it would, and everything was a blur around him as his muscles burned in ways that were less pain and more pleasure.

He's not sure when, exactly, he realized that he wanted to fly.

* * *

He'd almost always felt them there, poised and perfect, _waiting_.

Waiting for him to spread them out and shake away the itches and cramps and cover the ground with their magnificent shade.

Waiting for him to just _acknowledge_ their existence.

Waiting for him to just open them up and _soar_.

He never told anyone about the phantom wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades.

* * *

He could feel his wings burn as Dean pulled him away from the fire, from _her_.

He could smell burning flesh, he could hear would cracking and turning to ash, he could see the flames attacking every memory, every future he'd scavenged and taped together like the most fragile of artworks.

All he could feel was the pain of his singed not-feathers crumbling.

* * *

The wings are a _part_ of him, that, at least, he knows.

They'd droop and point to the ground when he was sad or ashamed, they'd puff up and spread out when he'd yell at his dad, they'd flare out defensively when he sensed danger, they'd press up flat against his back when he was scared, they'd quiver and dance when he laughed.

They'd wrap themselves around Dean every time he hugged him.

* * *

The shadowy weight that pressed down on him would disappear, for a few seconds, when that high ran through him, and the coppery tang of sulfurous blood was fresh in his mouth. The iron wings were once again downy feathers and royal plumes. He almost felt like he could fly.

Then came the crash.

The taste of her blood on his tongue made him sick, and the _power_ coursing through his veins made him want to rip his skin off so he didn't have to feel the quiet electric sparks traveling through him.

The wings were iron again, and he was a prisoner to the blood, shackled to the ground.

* * *

His wings twitched the first time he met Castiel.

That desire, longing, _need,_ to fly suddenly hit him out of nowhere, and he was left floundering when the angel leveled him a cool stare and the first thing out of his mouth was 'the boy with the demon blood'.

_Wrong_.

_I'm not just that, I'm more_ screamed a part of him, almost going unheard as the rest of him shrank away, away from the angel, away from that glorious Grace, away from the fire that blazed in Castiel's eyes.

He didn't like having his wings near a fire full of such heat.

* * *

He knew a lot of things about his brother, more than Dean probably even thought.

He knew that Dean played the music loud when he didn't want to think, and that he turned it down when he thought his little brother was asleep.

He knew that Dean would drink beer just for the heck of it, and whiskey when he _needed_ to forget.

He knew that Dean would sometimes sit up and watch him sleep through the night, and that when he'd go out and get breakfast, he'd come back with that 'girly frilly crap you call coffee' for him.

He knew that Dean was scared of flying, but was more scared of losing his family.

He knew that Dean was angry, _furious_, because he hadn't listened to him, and now the Devil was walking the Earth.

He didn't know if Dean would ever forgive him.

* * *

He finally knew what the wings were for.

He finally knew why he was meant to fly.

He shot himself in the head, and Lucifer made good on his promise to bring him back.

A feather fell away from his wings.

* * *

Lucifer asked him to say yes.

Sam considered having his wings dance around him as he soared over the world he never belonged to.

He said no.

Another feather fell.

* * *

_Say yes_.

No.

Drop a feather.

_Say yes_.

No.

Drop a feather.

_Yes_.

No.

Drop.

_Yes_.

No.

Drop.

_Yes_.

_No._

Drop. Drop. _Drop_.

* * *

Dean kept saying _no_.

He thought it was ironic, that.

He'd been saying no all his life.

Now, for once, he'd say _yes_.

* * *

Lucifer made his wings feel _alive_.

The feathers, broken and bent and twisted out of place smoothed out, and his wings were soft and sharp and gorgeous.

They were still missing feathers, though.

He'd thought he was saying yes to save the world, to save _Dean_.

And he was.

He _was_.

He also said yes because, really…

All he ever wanted was to know what it meant to _fly_.

* * *

The wings were heavier, when he came back to himself, almost as though they were weighed down by the memories Sam couldn't help but wish he had.

Flying wasn't an option anymore, he knew that.

He just wished he could remember what it felt like to be able to.

* * *

It wasn't so much _flying_, he realized, but _falling_.

_Fall fall fall fall_ into that big dark hole and then keep _fall fall falling_.

His wings weren't made to fly, he realized; they were meant to fall apart.

* * *

The trials ate away at him, he knew, but he didn't understand _how much_ until he tried to roll over and shooting stabs of agony overcame him.

His wings were tattered.

Feathers barely hung off the bone, a scarce few managing to hold on, stubborn as he was.

Watching the wings waste away hurt more than seeing the blood he coughed up or seeing Dean's expression when he refused food one more time.

The trials were meant to be hard.

He was never meant to fly anyway.

* * *

He woke up, and he knew right away that something was different.

He felt… _lighter_.

Dean brushed it off, saying Sam had been unconscious in the passenger seat for a day but that didn't make sense because his wings weren't sore enough for that and-

His wings.

His _wings_.

They were healing.

They felt _alive_.

They shimmered and twitched and it was as if he could fly again.

He took his first real breath in years.

* * *

The voice was emotionless, like Castiel's had been at the start, and the words were cold, like Lucifer's had always been. It was comforting.

_I'll fix you, Sam._

_I'll help you, and you _will_ fly again_.

* * *

**A/N And that's that. Damn. I missed the feeling of finality after writing. I ****_knew_**** there was a reason I usually go for one-shots! Anyway. Let me know what you thought in a review, they inspire me, and might just get me to slam out another something like this. :) **_~Sammy_


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